There You Are
by moonlighten
Summary: 1536: Wales tries to adjust to his new life as a resident in England's house. One-shot, complete. Part 5 of the Feel the Fear series.


**1536; Caernarfonshire, Wales**

Soon, these fields – his manor, too – will belong to the English lord the King had promised them to, but for now Cymru is still free to stand upon them. The wind blowing in from the sea that separates him from his sister is bitterly cold - its icy fingers tugging at his clothes and snarling his hair into tangles - but his feet are planted firm, the damp, rich soil yielding beneath them. He fancies that if he stays in place long enough, he might bore into it so deeply that he starts to sprout roots, anchoring him to the rock beneath, resolute and immovable.

He wishes he could.

"Cymru."

The fae had alerted Cymru to his brother's approach when he crossed the border from _Sir Ddinbych_, wheeling around his head in a flurry of diaphanous wings and shrill, wordless urgency, but that seems like mere moments ago and the sound of his voice still comes as a surprise. Time has wound itself tightly around Cymru, and he realises with a slight lurch of his stomach that he doesn't know long he's been standing here, willing the solidity of his land to sink into him and lend him at least a measure of its strength.

Scotland's léine is soaked through, turned dull and dark with dirt from his journey, but the colours of his brat are still vibrant, bright against the storm-scoured sky as Cymru blinks rain water out of his eyes and looks up at him. He attempts to give his brother a welcoming smile, but his cheeks ache as the movement brings blood rushing back to his chill-deadened skin, and he fears the result is more of a grimace.

"_Yr Alban_," he says, and the name is nothing but a hoarse whisper even though he'd drawn breath enough to voice louder.

Scotland's answering smile sits somewhat easier on his face, but looks barely more genuine than Cymru's own feels, regardless. He stares at Cymru for a moment, eyes oddly calculating, before saying, "So, I understand you're getting married."

The ridiculousness of the statement makes Cymru chuckle a little.

"Where did you hear that? I'm not, it's just…" He trails off with the realisation that he has no idea how this impending union – annexation, he reminds himself; this is no simple joining, no matter what diplomatic terms England may couch it in – will work. "They're not really going to make me _marry_ him, are they?" he asks, horrified.

Scotland's gaze remains steady on Cymru for a beat or two longer, and then he too laughs. "Fucking hell, I shouldn't think so." He lifts his hand, and Cymru instinctively flinches away from it, but it simply settles onto his shoulder, heavy and awkward. "There might be some sort of ceremony like that, but it's not the same thing at all."

"I am expected to live with him, though," Cymru says, looking out over the gentle swell of his land again, trying to fix the reality of it as a clear picture in his mind because soon that will be all he has left. He wishes it could have been a fine day. "The King is to pass on my estate to one of his nobles. I'll have nowhere left to come back to."

Scotland takes a deep breath, and Cymru thinks he might offer some sort of considered brotherly advice, or at least his condolences, but instead he just releases it in a roughened sigh that sounds more like a groan and keeps his silence thereafter. Perhaps he has no more words for this than Cymru has; nothing more than a sick, uneasy feeling deep in his gut that he can put no name to.

So they simply stand together, close enough that the heat of Scotland's body seeps into Cymru's own, and watch the rain fall, the passage of time spinning out into abstraction once more.  
>-<p>

* * *

><p><strong>-<br>1536; London, England**

-  
>The room England has set aside for Cymru's use is well-appointed, and he seems eager that his brother approve it. Cymru lacks the enthusiasm to do so, however, because he can still feel the tug of his own lands, a constant pressure on his chest that seems to make his heart sting with every beat. He hopes that the feeling pass soon, as he doesn't think he could survive intact if it continued like this throughout all the days of his exile, which has no end in sight.<p>

"Everything looks beautiful," Cymru manages to say eventually, when England's hopeful expression begins to crack. "Thank you, _Lloegr_."

The compliment sounds flat and insincere to Cymru's ears, but it returns the smile to England's face, nevertheless.

"I want you to be as comfortable here as you ever were in your own home," he says. "This is a good thing, Wales. We will be stronger together than we could ever have become apart."

Cymru nods, even though he had felt more than strong enough before, because he cannot find the determination within himself to argue otherwise.  
>-<p>

* * *

><p>-<br>Cymru's people see the fulfilment of an ancient prophecy in _Y Ddraig Goch_ upon the King's standard, and although he is glad of the comfort it gives them, he cannot share in it. England had killed Cymru's own dragon years ago: a spear through its heart, head severed from its body and held up in triumph.

He had worn a white surcoat that day, edged in gold, and ever since, Cymru has expected no other outcome than this.  
>-<p>

* * *

><p>-<br>After Crécy, England had begged Cymru to help him better his skills with the longbow, and Cymru remembers how the bow seemed to dwarf his brother's small frame, how his thin arms shook as he pulled back the string.

He appears to have shot up like a weed whilst Cymru wasn't looking, however, and one day, in the midst of conversation, Cymru suddenly notices that their eyes are on a level. The observation shocks the breath out of his lungs, and he stares at England mutely, wondering if this is a consequence of their union; if they will grow in concert now, matching each other inch for inch.

Or maybe England will outpace him instead, shoulders and chest broadening, limbs lengthening, until he towers over Cymru as Scotland already towers over the both of them. Cymru's people are now England's by law, as is his land down to the very bones of the earth, and perhaps his own growth will be arrested henceforth, with nothing left to draw upon.

England calls his name over and over – not his real name, the name the English gave him, and Cymru still hates the way it fades into sibilance; a dry hiss through sharp-edged teeth – but Cymru can only open and close his mouth silently, failing to find any words.  
>-<p>

* * *

><p>-<br>Although he might never have met them before nor be aware of their names, Cymru has always been able to recognise his people on sight. Before that, even, he is aware of their presence; a warm sense of connection, of kinship and a certain shared awareness that only some humans seem able to perceive acutely enough to pinpoint him as its source.

He has never experienced that with the English before, and even now it is not as strong; simply a vague appreciation of familiarity, as though meeting someone face to face that he had perhaps caught a glimpse of years before, the details since lost to his conscious mind.

There's a pretty young maid – with chestnut curls which shine vibrantly even by candlelight, and blue eyes that reflect the summer sun in the depths of winter – amongst England's servants whom he feels drawn to more than the rest, that familiarity approaching a deeper sense of intimacy.

Eventually, when he dares break the bounds of propriety to ask her, she tells him that her grandmother was Welsh. Her brilliant eyes remain cast demurely towards the floor as she speaks, but her lips curve upwards into a small smile. It's a beautiful smile, and Wales wishes he could get to know her better.  
>-<p>

* * *

><p>-<br>After they have lived together for several months, England stops responding to Cymru when he speaks in Welsh; feigning ignorance where there was none before. He corrects _Lloegr_ to England whenever Cymru uses the former, and in time, fails to respond it at all. If Cymru wants to talk to him, he has to use English, despite the fact that they have always been mutually intelligible to each other in the past even though it has been many years since they last shared a common tongue.

England's words feel like gravel in Cymru's mouth, hard and uncomfortable, and sometimes he thinks he might choke upon them.

At night, in the privacy of his own bedchamber, Cymru writes. He writes on scraps of parchment, and paper, and linen, even once, in desperation, on his bedclothes when he had run out of all else. The quill tip had caught on the threads, ink bleeding through the fabric and blurring the letters together, but Cymru could not rest until he'd filled it corner to corner.

Cymru tells himself he's composing poetry, lost in a flood of inspiration that he cannot hope to stem, but it lacks structure, meter and rhyme. What he does not want to admit is that he is creating a record; something tangible that will remain even if England manages to force every last syllable of Cymru's own language from his head.  
>-<p>

* * *

><p>-<br>Cymru has not seen any of his fae since he moved to London. He calls out to them sometimes when England is abroad and the house is still and quiet, but they do not answer. He misses their excited chatter, the invigorating tingle of their magic flowing through him, and they would be some semblance of company, at least, even though he cannot hope to hold a conversation with them.

He has not seen any of England's fae, either, which makes him think that Scotland's centuries-old plan had worked after all. He's not sure how to feel about that.  
>-<p>

* * *

><p>-<br>Cymru wakes one night on shocked gasp, thrust abruptly from a nightmare world where England had been devouring him whole. His nightshirt is wringing with sweat, clinging close and cold against his skin, and his heart beats so rapidly it feels like the flutter of a bird's wings, trapped inside his ribcage.

He lies awake for the rest of the night, because all he can see when he closes his eyes is England's rapacious expression, his teeth bared in a blood-stained grin.

The image does not fade with daylight and Cymru carries it around with him for the rest of the day, and then every day that follows that, as well.

His dreams have never been prescient before, but this one feels different, and he begins to fear that this union will become literal. That England will absorb him just as surely as their King has absorbed Wales' country into his own.

There is a certain heaviness to his limbs, and a clumsiness to his fingers – he knocks over his wine glass more than once at dinner, and finds it more and more difficult to hold his quill steady enough to write with it – but he cannot discern if it is the start of a dissolution of self, or simply a consequence of his fear of it.  
>-<p>

* * *

><p>-<br>Whenever England returns from court, he passes on the King's best wishes to Cymru, his hopes that he is hale and adjusting well to his new position.

England always serves as a messenger between them because Cymru himself has yet summoned into their monarch's presence, despite the '_singular Zeal, Love and Favour that he beareth towards his Subjects of his Dominion of Wales_'.  
>-<p>

* * *

><p>-<br>Cymru did not expect his older brother to visit him again, but he arrives unannounced one evening in late winter not long after England had taken his leave of their house's quiet halls for a night of revelry at the Palace of Whitehall.

Cymru dismisses the servants quickly – he would prefer that word of Scotland's visit not reach England's ears because his brother would no doubt rage for days if he heard of it, and Cymru wants to spare himself the attendant headache if he can – and fetches Scotland ale and some bread and cold meats to help ease the weariness that his long journey has clearly etched on his brow.

Scotland seats himself on England's favourite chair, pulled up close to the fireplace, and props his muddy shoes up on England's second favourite.

"Just thought I'd check how you were faring," he says after he's drained his mug dry. His voice is flat, atonal, but Cymru thinks he can see a hint of concern in his expression, although that might simply be a trick of the light cast out by the flickering flames.

Cymru would like to say that he is well, that he appreciates Scotland's efforts although they were unnecessary, and then hurry him back outside again for fear of England's early return to find him there, dirtying up the furniture and consuming England's victuals. He does not, however, because despite knowing that Scotland is unlikely to be able, or probably even willing, to offer him sympathy his worries are heavy burden around his neck, weighing him down and crushing the air from his lungs so thoroughly that sometimes he feels he can hardly breathe.

"I think I'm fading away," he says, unwittingly switching to Welsh halfway through the sentence in his agitation. "You know, because of this union. Sometimes, I barely feel visible, as though people don't even see me, I'm losing my strength, and –"

"I don't know how you can tell that. You've always been soft, Wales." Scotland catches hold of one of Cymru's hands, holding it still, and then brushes his calloused thumb across the palm. "Seems solid enough to me."

"I dreamt that England destroyed me," Cymru says quietly, eyes fixed on his brother's hand, the broad, blunt fingers wrapped around his own. "Ate me up. Every last scrap."

"Aye, and last night I dreamt I sprouted wings and flew over _Beinn Nibheis_. Doubt it's going to happen, though."

"But –"

"I can't say that I know much about how this all... How _we_ all work, but I think as long as people still think of themselves as yours here," he raps the centre of Cymru's chest with the knuckles of his free hand, "then it doesn't matter what the hell it says on a piece of parchment, King's seal or no." He smiles then, slow and wide. "And if England does anything to try and stop _that_, then I'll lead a fucking army down here to destroy _him_."

There are some people whom Cymru has no doubt that his brother would keep that sort of promise for, and although he suspects he is not one of them, it eases his heart a little, nevertheless.

"Thank you," he says.  
>-<p>

* * *

><p>-<br>**Notes:**

- Union between Wales and England had technically been achieved by the Statute of Rhuddlan in 1284 following the military conquest of Wales, but formal recognition did not occur until 1536. The first of the Acts of Union (which were only actually first referred to as such in 1901) in 1536 ensured the political annexation of Wales to England. The term 'union' is a little misleading, however, because it was not of the same nature as the legislation which united Scotland with England (1707) and Ireland with Britain (1800), which were passed by the parliaments of those countries which were, theoretically, of equal authority to the English parliament (though there was bribery and deception used in both cases). The Acts of Union with Wales were passed solely by the English parliament.

- _Sir Ddinbych_ = the historic county of Denbighshire.

- _Y Ddraig Goch_ = The Red Dragon. The House of Tudor, which held the English throne from 1485 to 1603, used it on their standards to signify their direct descent from one of the noble families of Wales. During Henry VIII's reign, the red dragon on a green and white background (the current Welsh flag) was a favourite emblem used on Royal Navy ships.

- The Historia Brittonum recounts the prophecy of Myrddin (Merlin) which foretells of a long fight between a red dragon and a white dragon, symbolising the historical struggle between the Welsh and English (white dragon).

- The fight of the red dragon and an invading white dragon is also recounted in the Mabinogion, where the red dragon represents the native Britons, the white, the Saxons.

- The Battle of Crécy established the military supremacy of the English/Welsh longbow over the French combination of crossbow and armoured knights.

- In the Fifteenth century, the Welsh gentry, who were drawn to the pleasures of London, began learning English to facilitate their time there. After two centuries, English had replaced Welsh in the homes of the gentry, and after the union, when English law was established in Wales, English was in sole use in the courts, leaving the majority monoglot Welsh at a disadvantage.

- '_Singular Zeal, Love and Favour that he beareth towards his Subjects of his said Dominion of Wales_' is a quote from the full text of the Act of 'Union'.

- _Beinn Nibheis_ = Ben Nevis


End file.
